Just Thinking
by The Kunai
Summary: Dedicate Crane likes writing in his journal in the greenhouse in the dead of the night, thinking about the one other person who knows about this for a fact. Sort of really one sided RosieCrane fic. Also, if some major details are wrong, please shoot me...


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Title: Just Thinking

Author: The Kunai

One-Shot

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Not many people knew that Dedicate Crane liked to think alone in the building of glass.

Hardly anyone was aware that on some nights he snuck into his own greenhouse, sat down somewhere, set up a couple of glowing crystals, and practically snuffed a huge encyclopedia.

And not too many people knew that he kept a journal as well.

But wait. The only one that knew was himself. Quickly he jotted down with a fountain pen in the relatively new-looking book that he should stop trying to refer to himself as five or more people. And then he remembered that there was another person who knew this little secret, the way that he managed to show his emotions so he could be that haughty but otherwise bland person that the common populace took him for. So the next thing he did was breathe in the smell of several basil and mint plants nearby, detecting a hint of the newly bloomed jasmine flowers, and then jot again that he wasn't quite crazy so he could lessen that amount to four.

Feeling more centered, he stopped and continued writing in the main area of the page instead of the little corners of his new book. This made it the…third book he went through? Probably. The third book where he could write with actual personality and a little bit of odd humor as well, as well as spill what was really bothering him. He remembered that his handwriting, normally elegant and as controlled as his straight black hair, had gained a jagged edge that didn't quite go away after the incident with the blue pox, just like her barely detectable slur was a remnant of that event. It was scarcely just in time that he had gotten the cure to her, and saved the rest of the people who were still alive from that foolish mage's concoction. Though it had been many years since then, with the original four children (he couldn't really forget them, seeing as they had reputations, and they still visited, and he still kept a wary eye on that plant mage named Briar) now at least eighteen or so, it left a lasting impression on his soul that knocked on his door every few months or so.

He had almost lost her.

Crane shouldn't have cared about her this much, to be bothered with it years and years later, but maybe that was the real issue and that was why he continued to make a mention of it. She was simply his friend now, a friendly rival with who he could still enjoy some old verbal spars with. At one point in their extended history, however, it hadn't always been just the arguing. With a painful fondness he emptied himself of for the next day, there had also been potion dissecting, hand-holding, kissing, undressing…

She had once been his. And Crane had once been a young, hopeless romantic, and he had caught her eye at last by slipping a bottle of nameless love potion on her table with a note challenging her to find out what it was. No, he promised that he had never actually slipped any into her food or drink, she had simply been smitten ever since she figured out the little joke. They swore that if they hadn't been already planning on becoming dedicates, they would have easily gotten married. Honestly, looking back his behavior was extremely embarrassing when he was around her, alone, and even a little when she was just present. He had loved the way the sun made her auburn hair glimmer with copper and gold tones; he was always amazed by her unique way with plants and she had even tutored him just a little, although he wouldn't say that to anyone else and thankfully she kept herself hushed; he enjoyed her sharp wit and happily had wars with her while that easygoing glint was in her youthful earth-colored eyes; he made sure to give pleasure to every inch of that ivory skin…

Until it happened.

Lightsbridge happened.

They traveled to the school, enthusiastic at being accepted and contented by the idea of them working together. That building had to be cursed, though, he thought, watching his writing gain that jagged edge again. Crane, then known as Isas, first lost himself in the various tomes they kept in those stuffy towers. Dignity outpaced life soon enough; their squabbles became less friendly as he scolded her continually for not being more serious, or for laughing too much, or for talking to the plants when they didn't need it. Next, he showed his talents to that world, his ideas, and somehow everyone had forgotten her while they all praised him. Worst of all, he knew why they had neglected to honor her--she wasn't of noble birth, and he was--and he hadn't given a shit. Who needed her? Pride mattered the most! He was in the limelight soaking up every ray, keeping a stern demeanor as he did so to cover his excitement--really, it was unprofessional to be immodest.

Suddenly, he remembered that day when she had asked him to meet him in one of the gardens. Isas was reminded of their former walks through the Winding Circle gardens, but if he remembered how he had gotten a butterfly to land on that pretty nose he did not show it. Instead, the only thing he did to crack his serious face was a small grin, expecting some sort of out-of-the-blue gesture of affection, and maybe he would only chide her a little. But she had done well, to act more seriously like an adult should act.

And then the explosion came. Words lashed out furiously like…like a whip made of rose vine cutting into his throat. He was too surprised to retaliate for the first two minutes, and when he finally could speak, he slashed back with hot white fury in his eyes, and their bitter feelings clawed at each other like ravenous bears. Crane of the present rubbed his temples, annoyed by his naiveté. He had really expected her to remain the same. Really, really expected her to sit along happily, wait on the sidelines while he got his little congratulations, and be satisfied with the monster that he had transformed into. When the fighting calmed down and she told him with tears in her eyes that she had already met someone else so he'd better not come crawling back for her when he finally missed her, he had assumed at first that maybe she was simply jealous. It was only a while later, two years, that he started thinking it might have been his arrogance.

Today, and actually two years after that revelation, he knew that he had always been a little haughty, but she had accepted that part of him without a fuss when they first got together. No, he had changed, and she had changed, before becoming sick of both of them. With this view in mind, and the fact that he was forced to be around her anyway when they became dedicates of Winding Circle, the man decided to try a tentative friendship. At first it was like drinking straight coffee brewed with salty water, but she had cooperated and her thorns receded a little, until they could manage to do some friendly fire before the day was done. It was just that he hadn't paid attention to the heart in years, why he was writing five pages in a row tonight and he had taken up his last journal so quickly even though it should have lasted at least another decade at least. The blue pox changed his life forever, forced him to look deep inside his soul when the shock from her near-death experience opened a fissure through his heavily woven façade.

There, at the bottom of the dirt, the grime, the rotten head of cabbage, and the rusted knives. Something that he once so highly prized he polished it every single day. It winked ruby red, fiery orange, and it glowed with a thousand souls of a thousand stars in his mind…now it was covered with layers of trash that his ego poured on it, while he ran away from the one he loved to fulfill his false purpose in life. Crane had learned the hard way the last years from that day onward that reputations were the result of people not knowing what to do with themselves. Crane had learned that, if he was an outcast who could only eat enough for himself to stay alive, he would have been the happiest man alive if he had her in his arms. Because she would have been the richest part of his life.

He only had himself to blame. Lark was a very nice woman; he couldn't have anything against the sweet lady even if he really tried. She was always polite despite the fact that he was his usual dry self around her, and her only reaction to the daily bickering with the other lady of the house was a kindly, motherly smile and a small shake of the head. Somehow, Lark seemed to know everyone more than they knew themselves, and her mild-mannered personality was refreshing, and that was just the beginning of a list of several million really good reasons to go with her and not with the grumpy old male dedicate.

At the rims of his eyelids, feeling swollen from exhaustion, the old man quickly noticed a stinging sensation and he paused in his writing to rest his cramping hand and to wipe his eyes on his yellow robe's sleeve. Ugh. Crying. At least no one was around to witness the great Crane, formerly Isas, sitting cross-legged and sniffling softly like a child with no lessons in self-control. Once he was sure that his emotions wouldn't slip away like an amateur's magic, his writing started again, and he began filling in what he expected to be the last sentences of this particular entry.

The sound of footsteps made him freeze in place. His hand only moved a little bit, to lift the pen off of the paper so ink wouldn't leak through. No one, not even her, could get in here, because he was the only one who knew the correct layering of the spells and thus how to remove them from the door. Slowly, he looked up, and then he realized that he had forgotten to close the door behind him. Mentally he berated himself for this slip-up, owing it to feeling too emotional this evening. That's what being in that state did to someone: feeling and thinking mixed as well as rocks and hollandaise sauce. He didn't go further than that, though, because he recognized that dark green habit, the rather broad shoulders, the short hair that was cropped until she could have taken the place of a boy if she bound her chest, that she once wore in a loose ponytail back in the old schooling days.

"Rosethorn…" Her name escaped his lips in a dehydrated whisper, attempting to be gentle. She gave him an odd look as she closed the door behind her. Next she marched up to him, stopping about a yard away, and then she folded her arms over her chest.

"You, of all people, being irresponsible and forgetting something as simple as closing a door."

Instinctively his left eyebrow raised sharply, "And why would you of all people be up so late? Do you really have nothing better to do than check for such things?" Calmly the writing hand placed that final period on the sentence; he capped the pen and closed the book coolly, locking the leather bind with a couple of spells that would punish anyone who was inquisitive enough to turn over his whole room to find it--there were probably crazy people like that out there, who knows--and his usual personality returned to him while he stood up. The mage knew he should have towered over her, but she seemed to be of equal height thanks to her bold personality, and that cold expression which he numbly registered as scratching his already battered soul from his self-admonishments.

"That should roughly be my question. I probably should be concerned about such things if it's something from you, and for a place as precious to you as this monstrosity of a building," She sounded as harsh as ever, but he knew the words that she picked and the gossamer-thin under layer of concern betrayed what she was really thinking. Experience made her not retort that what she did in the evening hours was none of his business, because he could attack that from so many angles it would seem impossible to draw. Rather, she said this, "And also, you normally take only one crystal with you. Suddenly scared of the dark?"

"…" He was mute for a few seconds, and then he was tripping in his indignant state, "…how…wait, why…are you…"

Finally he sighed, rubbing his temple again. It was so eerily similar…

"You…have always been privy to my secrets…even when I don't try to let you in…"

He noticed her pale features soften. Just a little bit, as if brushed by a soft feather, or like a rock canyon finally beginning to be polished by the winds that traveled through it for a millennia. It was very reluctant, but she smiled a hint of a smile, and shrugged ever so subtly. He had scarred her too, it seems, along with the other events in her life, and regretful twinges tugged at his heartstrings. All those years ago, just like the blue pox…a long silence stretched between them, so rare and usually only because they were concentrating on a project. It gave him a sense of nostalgia, breezing through him memories of when he had awkwardly asked her to eat lunch with him one sunny afternoon…

"So why can't you sleep?" She knew that a dependency on sleeping potions was extremely dangerous, so he understood why she didn't even try to suggest it. Crane's eyes averted sideways like a child.

"…I was just thinking…"

He surprised himself. The normally almost-monotone had gained a melancholy hue. She also surprised him by releasing her own sigh, by understanding.

By covering over the remaining few feet of distance, and hugging him.

At first his body just couldn't respond. He was numbed, in a dream perhaps. And then his nerves worked again, his arms extended and wrapped around her perfect frame and he smelled more jasmine, basil, mint, thyme, lemon grass, freshly rained earth…rosemary. Roses. Rosethorn…

"I'm sorry…" he buried his head in her neck.

For a few moments, he was Isas, and she was Niva.

He was the happiest man alive.

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A/N: I apologize if they're horridly OOC. Please review; I like reviews...


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